


I Killed You Dead!

by White_Marker



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Just give peace a chance all right, M/M, Murder and mystery, Vampires, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-01-31 13:59:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12683340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Marker/pseuds/White_Marker
Summary: After having caught a familiar scent at the trader's market, a genius idea is formed and Raphael starts to devise a plan involving poor, unsuspecting Simon.





	1. Chapter 1

_Now — October; Ain't I a Stinker?_

 

 

The Great Hall of Neopolis, a middle sized trading city on the eastern shore of the States, was an enormous building near the central marketplace whose offices of the upper floors were utilized by the judges and lawyers of the city. The cellars of the building, forming an endless maze with a large number of cells, functioned as a prison.

 

On a quiet Sunday midday, a man walked to the front desk of the Great Hall with a purposeful stride. His clothes were well cared for and neatly tailored to a perfect fit. Dark, stern eyes were trained on the clerk at the desk as he made his way across the hall.

 

The Hall was a hundred feet wide and two hundred feet long, taller than the tallest church in the city and, on this Sunday, currently very empty. His steps reverberated through the air.

 

The glass-stained windows had been opened early in the morning to let in the air on this warm autumn day. A soft breeze floated in.

 

From his left, a pigeon flew in and fluttered nervously about. Its heartbeat drummed at a high speed.

 

When he came to a halt, the clerk did not look up from where she was reading the newspaper, having heard him from the moment he opened the creaking old wooden doors.

 

“State your name and business, please,” she said.

 

“Raphael Santiago. Visiting inmate Camille Belcourt, 4093.” He handed over the admission document. His handwriting was impeccable. No frills, no ink stains, instead he wrote in clear, small block letters.

 

She took the paper and checked it without haste, uninterested even after hearing Miss Belcourt’s name, and set the paper down next to her. “Approved.”

 

The old lady, wearing heavy golden bangles that matched her glittery reading glasses, reached to her left and pulled out the large register book. It clonked down on her desk with a loud bang that boomed through the hall. The pigeon nearly flew into a stone pillar.

 

She flipped through the pages until she reached 4093, penned down the date, time and his surname, and pressed down a stamp next to the entry, hard.

 

She returned to her newspaper.

 

A guard led him downstairs.

 

The daylight faded fast and in its place came the damp chill of what used to be catacombs. The priests had moved their religious practices elsewhere, and the halls and chambers had been transformed into prison cells. Skulls and bones still decorated the walls, as well as subtle engravings that dulled with time; depictions of old heroes’ tales, monstrous, hybrid creatures with talons and scales, or lovers entwined beneath a canopy of flowers. Raphael’s eyes lingered on the drawings.

 

The moist air and stale smell of still water, like marshy sewage, filled his nostrils. It reminded him of when he was younger and his mother had taken him to visit old caves near to the village he was born. That was over a hundred years ago and she had long since died.

 

The two men halted in front of a candle-lit cell.

 

“Camille Belcourt, inmate 4093,” the guard stated. He did not unlock her cell but stepped back, giving some semblance of privacy.

 

“Hello, Camille,” Raphael greeted.

 

A slumped figure stirred and then remained motionless for a few minutes. When she recognized who stood in front of her, she groaned. “Ah… My angel. You’ve finally come to visit your old friend?”

 

Camille Belcourt, former leader of one of the two major power holders of the city, had lost all her glamour and shine. Gone was her silver jewellery, her blood red dresses and night blue tunics. The bronze ring that used to adorn her finger was now screwed tightly onto Raphael’s.

 

“No,” he answered. “I would hardly call this a friendly visit.”

 

Her foul body odour was overpowering. Clearly the guards didn’t particularly care for their inmates’ hygiene. She had not washed in over a month, hadn’t fed in over longer. Before, she used to smelled of hyacinths, always persistent about the particular fragrance she bought from the most expensive shop in the city. It really was quite lovely.

 

Camille stared at him. Her cheekbones stood out and stretched across gaunt, sallow skin. “Mh.” Her voice cracked from disuse. She brushed away the hair falling in front of her face and gave him a lazy smile. “Well. I can only think of one reason. You’ve come to gloat.”

 

He tilted his head sideways and almost unconsciously returned her smile. “Yes.” Her expression didn’t change. “I think it’s only fair, after over a hundred years of having to answer to you?”

 

Camille didn’t answer. She remained quiet for a whole five minutes, staring at Raphael, wishing for him to speak. Then she moaned as she heaved herself upwards, the chains around her feet rattling across the floor. A rusty bucket smelling of urine and faeces lay to her right.

 

Camille had already grown bored of him and decided she would waste no further time. She had never been able to stand Raphael.

 

“I suppose it is only fair. But let me bestow a little life lesson upon you, my angel.” Even in this state she lost none of her haughty condescension. “I’m an Ancient One, I’ve lived a lot longer than you, and I can predict right here, right now, that you’ll fall and fail. You’re not nearly cunning enough to remain at the head of the clan. You won’t best me, I can promise you that. All cages are temporary.”

 

It struck a chord, because deep down Raphael feared she was right. Camille had friends in high places, and compared to her, he was practically a new-born. Still a fledgeling.

 

The newly established peace treaty in the city was frail, and the other vampires of the clan had wavering loyalties. Some followed in her footsteps, disregarded accords and fed off humans. They had the same cold craving for senseless carnage.

 

Raphael was treading on thin ice, and he realized coming here had been a mistake. In the two seconds of silence, she seemed to read the uncertainty on his face and smiled.

 

“And how is my dear Simon doing? Still tasting sweet?”

 

Raphael corrected her calmly, after almost foolishly losing his temper, “I think you mean mine, Camille.”

 

She let out a bark of laughter and cleared her throat. “Of course.”

 

Unease settled deep in his stomach.

 

“I remember him,” she said. “I remember what he tastes like. He never shut up, but he tasted as if the gods had made him for us to enjoy, don’t you agree? Like sweets. Caramels. Soft, sticky, and heady.” She moved closer and her hands curled around the metal bars. She licked her lips and let her fangs drops.

 

Raphael clenched his jaws. The guard followed their interaction from the opposite corner, sensing the growing tension.

 

“Oh… Love makes you so blind,” she continued. “Wasn’t I the one who always told you what a terrible nuisance it is? And weren’t you the one who always agreed?”

 

“I don’t love him,” Raphael said.

 

To Raphael’s increasing fury, she started cackling. “Oh, this is good! The most entertainment I’ve had in months! Thank you for coming down here.” She gripped her stomach and huffed.

 

She shook her head. “You’ve just proven how deeply unsuitable you are for the role of clan leader. Poor, sweet angel, you’ll always be ruled by your baser emotions and instincts, like an animal. You just can’t let it slide, can you? That he’s not yours?”

 

“He is,” Raphael insisted, regretting it immediately. Even to himself, he sounded like a child.

 

Raphael lowered his head. She shrugged her shoulders and began picking at her nails.

 

After a few minutes of silence, during which he studied her, he said, “Goodbye, Camille.” He turned and followed the path back to the Hall upstairs. The guard followed him quietly.

 

Camille called after him, “Give him my love!”

 

 

 

 

 

_Before – March, the first glimpse of light_

 

Evolution was a grand thing, Raphael concluded, feeling the rays of sunlight warm his face.

 

Who had ever thought that vampires would be able to walk in daylight? For centuries, they couldn’t touch rays without bursting into dust. Now the only thing he felt was a slight tingle, and if he was careless he would burn, much faster than a regular human.

 

But evolution was a grand thing. He revelled in the feeling.

 

So absorbed he was, Raphael almost missed the scent that would change his life. His eyes sprang open to the sight of the bustling market, the shouting vendors behind their pyramids of fruits and nuts.

 

It wasn’t the sweet tang of oranges or earthy aroma of walnuts that had distracted him, however. It was something much sweeter and earthier, almost familiar, pumping through a stranger’s veins, and _so_ nearby.

 

An angered tourist bumped into him, griping about disturbing the flow of the market.

 

Raphael pinned the man with a deathly glare and walked on hazily, trailing behind the scent.

 

The sun and the overflow of smells and voices rendered him unbalanced. He knocked over a few apples from a crate of stall to his left and quickly apologized, handed some coins to the woman yelling at him in a daze. “Blind idiot!”

 

As he gained on the smell, it starts to shift, slowly becoming more pungent, so much so that Raphael instinctively covered his nose, because the sweet smell had mixed with a revolting, acrid stench of illness. Whoever the smell belonged to was unwell. Not only that, but Raphael caught the tell-tale whiff of lycan, and a very particular one at that, a lycan Raphael recognized.

 

That’s when Raphael spotted him.

 

A young man, pale and slightly feverish, with a wide mouth that burst into a broad laugh, with unkempt, dark hair, and with glasses askew on his nose. He was chatting amiably with a petite redhead whose mother was scolding him for distracting her daughter from her work. The stall, however, had no customers. Still, he apologized cheerily, and moved to the side. The girl moved along with him.

 

The mishmash of smells made Raphael dizzy. He kept his distance and sneaked in between two houses on the edge of the market square, keeping an eye on the man.

 

As if someone above him was pulling the strings of his body, a little marionette, clumsy and stiff, he moved forward and only realized he was halfway to the stall and the scent when yet again a buyer knocked into him, and shouted at him. The commotion distracted everyone around them, including the young man.

 

Their eyes met for a split second. Then the man looked away and continued chatting.

 

To Raphael’s ever-growing astonishment and shame, his mouth started to water. He quickly snapped his mouth shut and pinched his lips.

 

He swallowed thickly and waited for his brain to kick into gear. When it did, he was overcome with relief and anticipation, uncharacteristically greedy and nervous. He had a plan.

 

 

 

 

_Before; June, a new life_

 

 

A figure cloaked in dirty garments sat perched in a kneeled position at the steps of a small altar in front of burning candles. Flickering in their light was a rough statue of a woman mirroring the position of the man. His hands rested on the ground beside his legs, his eyes closed. He held his head bowed low.

 

Raphael observed the scene from afar.

 

He didn’t worship this deity, but knew She, the statue, stood for health and hope. He almost shook his head, concluding that the situation was slightly ironic. He was, after all, here to offer the same thing.

 

The young man murmured the same unintelligible phrase over and over.

 

Raphael had entered the temple half an hour ago, waiting for the devout priestess to finally take her leave. She had approached the praying man, the only person left, informing him she was needed elsewhere, but he was welcome to stay. The doors were open day and night. There was nothing valuable to steal, save for the stumps of candle wax and a red cloth hammered to the wall.

 

Now the two of them were alone. Outside, a church bell rang indicating midnight. It was cool inside, not that Raphael felt any of it. The man, however, shivered slightly, huddling closer to the candles and burrowing himself into his cloak. His curls fell forward.

 

Raphael crept out of the shadows and coughed.

 

The young man was sunk so deeply into prayer, he didn’t hear, so Raphael lowered himself to his knees next to the man and mirrored the Lady’s position.

 

He was soon noticed and the young man inhaled deeply and grabbed at his chest. “Jesus! Oh— you scared me, sorry, that—,” he broke off suddenly and gave a tight-lipped nod, returning to the Lady. He was wheezing.

 

Raphael kept staring at him, and clearly unable to take it any longer, the young man turned around angrily and demanded, “What are you doing? This is kind of creepy. Please —move away. I need … space … to breathe.” He coughed.

 

Raphael wasn’t going to beat around the bush. At any moment, someone could walk in and he would have to wait for another opportunity to speak privately. In a determined voice he said, “You’re dying, Mr. Lewis.”

 

Simon, as Raphael knew him to be called, startled and looked nervously about. “Excuse me? How do you kn—,”

 

“I can smell it.”

 

He recoiled and bent his head, sniffing at his armpits. “That’s awful, surely I don’t smell quite so terrible—,”

 

“No,” Raphael interrupted.

Simon gathered his wits and shot up quickly, backed away, but Raphael strode over in three easy steps and pointed at his heaving chest, from which the putrid smell emanated. “Your lungs smell rotten. It’s coming from the inside out. I’d give you another couple of months, most likely less.” Raphael did his very best not to inhale too deeply.

 

He gaped. “But I’ve not told anyone! My mother doesn’t even know! How could you possibly _smell_ it? Who are you? What are you?” Right above him was the statue of a gargoyle baring its teeth, and Simon widened his eyes in alarm and nearly screeched, “Are you— are you a demon?” He erupted in a coughing fit. The hall was empty and Simon’s wet coughs echoed loudly.

 

Raphael smiled. “All demons were once angels, Mr. Lewis, soldiers of god. A demon is merely a fallen angel. Either way, I’m afraid the joy of being a soldier is reserved for the Nephilim.”

 

Raphael gave him a few seconds to process, but quickly resumed. “I smell lycan on you too. And not only that, but a particular lycan. Luke Garroway?”

 

“Are you mad? Did you escape from the asylum? I don’t understand what on earth you are talking about. Lycan? And Luke? How could you possibly — ” he cut himself off. “I haven’t seen Luke in weeks!”

 

“I don’t mean now. I noticed his scent a while back,” he grunted, losing his patience. “The first time I walked past you, a few months ago.”

 

Simon’s eyes bulged. He started spluttering and pulling at his sleeves. “What! Have you been following me? How _dare you_ —,”

 

“Spare me the theatrics, Mr. Lewis. As I was saying,” Raphael continued in a collected manner, “The first time I walked past you, I smelled lycan. It was back in March. You were talking to a friend of yours, hackling your way through a conversation. You never even realized I was there. But I was glad to have fallen upon you.”

 

“Why? What do you want with me?”

 

Raphael’s smile widened. “Because, Mr. Lewis, I have a proposition for you.”

 

Simon frowned and seemed at a loss for how to act. “Well… What if I’m not interested? I mean, you can’t just come in here and —,”

 

“I think you’ll find you’ll be interested in what I have to offer. It involves you alive. Mostly. Besides, it’s not exactly a proposition. I was only attempting to soothe your nerves.”

 

Simon started truly panicking. His heart rate shot up again and his airway blocked. He resumed coughing and held a hand out in front of him, hoping to ward off whatever was coming.

 

“I’m giving you a new chance at life. You’re dying. Your physician has told me so weeks ago.”

 

“ _How_ do you know all of this?” Simon shrieked. “This is outrageous, oh my god, I am going to die, for sure. This is ridiculous, I only came here to _pray_! Can’t a person pray in peace anymore?” He continued babbling to himself, pacing to and fro and muttering agitatedly about doctor-patient confidentiality and the Hippocratic oath.

 

Raphael waited patiently until Simon calmed down somewhat. He kept an ear out for any other visitors. No one was coming.

 

Simon sat down on a wooden bench. He stared at the statue of the Lady with a miserable look on his face.

 

“Mr. Lewis,” Raphael said. “I must apologize. I had hoped to meet you in a less …unsettling manner, but you are always surrounded by people. Even at night.” Simon still lived at home with his family. “This is the first time I’ve been able to catch you alone, and I would prefer to have this conversation in private. Let me get right to the heart of it.”

 

Simon glanced up at him and shrugged helplessly.

 

“You’re aware of the two leading factions in this city, I presume?”

 

A nod.

 

“Excellent. So you must know that Luke is important. Very important, even.”

 

Another nod.

 

“But you don’t seem to know what he is.”

 

“What he is? What do you mean? Is that what you keep referring to? Lycan?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Lycanthrope? Lykos, wolf, anthropos, man? Are you seriously attempting to convince me that Luke Gorroway, member of the most important group of lawyers, who, yes, I know have a lot of standing in this city, but who I’ve known all my life, is a _wolf_ _man_? You are insane.”

 

“I’m glad you know your Greek.”

 

“That is absurd!” Simon shouted. “I would know if he turned furry every month.”

 

Raphael corrected him. “He is not a werewolf, but a lycan. They’ve grown since being chained to the shift as werewolves. Lycans are an advanced species that is able to fully control its shift. The influence of the full moon in strenuous, undoubtedly, but they can choose not to give in to it.” Raphael was not used to speaking this much. He felt himself growing nervous but hid it well.

 

Simon laughed and rubbed his forehead. “You’re messing with me. I know I’m taken for a fool a lot of the time, but this takes the cake! I love a good performance as much as the next man, but this is not funny anymore—,”

 

With a burst of speed, Raphael sprinted to him and let his fangs drop, hissed for good measure, and sunk his claws into Simon’s biceps.

 

Simon yelled out in fear and surprise. Raphael quickly covered his mouth. “Believe me now?”

 

Frantic nods in quick succession. Raphael let go, and Simon let out a stream of oh, my gods. “This cannot be happening to me.”

 

“Lose your composure later, Mr. Lewis. Please, look at me.”

 

He complied.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“What is even your name? I don’t know who your are.”

 

Slowly, the claws and fangs retreated. “Raphael Santiago.” An archangel. “I am not a lycan, but a vampire, instead. Need I explain further?”

 

Simon shook his head dumbly, too shocked to think straight. He had become frozen. “Raphael. Like the angel. רפאל.”

 

Raphael had followed Simon to the synagogue on a few Saturdays. He was always accompanied by his mother and sister.

 

“All right. I presume, then, you know of the other leader as well.”

 

A few seconds passed in silence. Simon had started to shiver. “Miss Belcourt?”

 

“Yes. She’s my boss.”

 

“Oh. I thought she led the traders here in Neopolis –the guilders.”

 

“Yes, she does. But it serves mostly as a cover. The two factions have been at odds for over two decades. It’s starting to grow rather tiresome,” he said. “Camille, Miss Belcourt that is, is a stubborn bitch.”

 

Simon frowned at the harsh words, but he could guess why. “I’ve … heard some things.”

 

“None pleasant, I assume?”

 

“Eh … no, not really.” Simon thought of the stories and rumours flying about the city. Cruel treatment of her employees, unfair trials and bribed judges, corrupt money schemes, unsavoury business practices, the list went on.

 

“Excellent. So we can agree on one thing, at least. Miss Belcourt has refused any sort of peace treaty with the lycans—,”

 

“Luke.”

 

“Yes, Luke, because she has always been power hungry and is unwilling to share it.”

 

“Okay.” Simon paused. “But I don’t understand, why are you talking to me? What is my role in all this? Besides, I’m … dying. I won’t … be around for much longer.”

 

“You are going to help me. Luke doesn’t trust the vampires anymore, thanks to Camille. We keep losing people on both sides, and I’ve had enough. I refuse to be killed because of a spoiled brat with no sense for politics. This is my home, and I intend to keep it that way.”

 

“That … seems … reasonable, I guess.” Simon shrugged, thinking, _I’m so far out of my depth, please, save me._ He threw a quick look at the stone statue again.

 

“Precisely. So you’re going to help me get Luke on my side. Convince him to band together and overthrow that incompetent queen. And in return, I’ll save your life.”

 

“How?”

 

“Need you really ask?” Raphael dropped his fangs and smiled. It made for a gruesome sight. A beast passing for an angel, still beautiful.

 

“And what if I refuse? Can’t I go to Luke instead, and have him turn me into … a thing, you know.” Simon backed away, afraid of what was to come. His self-preservation instincts had started to kick in.

 

Raphael moved closer, his expensive shoes clacking faintly on the tiles. Simon grew alarmed. “I’m sorry, I can’t let that happen. I need some reassurance, you see, that I won’t get duped in the process.”

 

“You’re awfully polite for someone who’s about to kill me!” Simon said hysterically.

 

“Good manners are timeless.”

 

“I— I— I can promise you, your reasons seem … reasonable, I get it! I understand,” Simon took another few steps backwards until he met the wall. “I promise, I won’t trick you! I’m dependable, ask anyone! I—,”

 

“Can’t take the chance. If I sire you—”

 

Simon choked at the words, terrified.

 

“If I sire you, I’ll be able to feel you out. Detect any fraudulent intentions. I’ll know where you are at all times, and I’ll be able to sense your distress. Think of it as insurance.”

 

“That seems a little excessive. It’s really not necessary!” He crossed his arms in front of him and tried to give a reassuring smile. “I promise, I …” he trailed off as Raphael stopped right in front of him and took a few fearful gulps of air.

 

“I do apologize, Mr. Lewis.”

 

“Simon,” he babbled. “It’s Simon. You’re about to …”

 

“Simon,” he conceded, feeling uncomfortable at the familiarity despite being about to _sire_ a vampire for the first time in his undead life. It didn’t feel right. “I am sorry. But I need to think of my people. Hopefully you’ll understand one day.”

 

“Please don’t,” Simon pleaded. “Please, I’m not ready for this. Give me a few weeks, or a few days, at least! I need to…”

 

Raphael gripped his wrists softly, but with determination. He repeated himself while staring Simon straight in the eyes. “ _Perdóname_.”

 

He placed his cold hand over Simon’s beating chest, the feel of the frantic rhythm seared into his brain, and held it there until Simon began to squirm. “Please, don’t.”

 

And then Raphael surged forward, clamped down on his neck, and bit.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Before – June; You killed me dead!_

It didn’t pan out exactly the way Raphael thought it would.

 

In truth, he’d expected sickly Simon Lewis to go down easy, he’d expected a simple death, not too messy or loud.

 

How wrong he was! Simon Lewis, ailing as he was, still had his reflexes and a healthy dose of fight of flight instincts. Unfortunately for Raphael, Simon had chosen to fight.

 

Not only did he shout at the top of his lungs – panicked, Raphael quickly covered Simon’s mouth – but he punched Raphael in the ear, then the stomach, and then jaw.

 

“What the hell!” Simon shrieked, grabbing his bleeding neck. The blood leaked around his fingers.

 

Raphael spit out a piece of skin that had come loose when Simon had wrenched himself away. It was rather disgusting. Blood vampires liked, but skin was leathery and tough, not to mention wholly unpleasant to digest. It landed on the floor with a wet squelch and Simon gagged at the sight.

 

Raphael was momentarily speechless.

 

Simon took advantage of his distraction and ran. Raphael sped after him and tripped him, sending Simon sprawling. Again he shouted for help, but after being pinned to the floor, Raphael resorted to a dirty trick: encanto.

 

“Be quiet,” he instructed. “Calm down, you have nothing to be afraid of. Do you want to live?”

 

Confused, Simon nodded. “Yes.” He grunted, “What kind of stupid question is that?”

 

“Good.” Raphael bent forward and bit again, more gently this time. When he’d drank enough, he made a cut on his own wrist and let a few drops dribble into Simon’s mouth.

 

He lost consciousness.

 

Suddenly, a door opened with a loud bang. Raphael realized he had about five seconds before the priestess, whose scent he’d recognized, would come barging into the main prayer hall.

 

“Damn it.” This was unplanned for. He’d wanted to take him home to Dumort, but Simon was lying limp on the cold floor and he had about three seconds left.

 

So he raced into the shadows and kept still.

 

The woman came in and gave a shout of surprise. She ran to Simon and searched for a pulse. It was still beating, but very faintly, and would soon stop. She looked around in fear but didn’t see him.

 

Instead of yelling for help, the priestess ran back and went looking for a medic.

 

A small window of opportunity presented itself. Raphael opened a side-door and sneaked out of the back, cursing himself for handling this so clumsily.

 

\--

 

A funeral was held three days later. Rain fell lightly between short intervals, darkening the sky.

 

Elaine Lewis stared dully out in front of her, a hand placed loosely on her daughter’s leg. First her husband, and now her son. She was burying her own child.

 

His casket was lowered into the ground. The wooden box bumped against the edge when the chord slipped through the hand of one of the men helping to lower it.

 

The sad affair lasted no longer than half an hour, after which the family retreated to Mrs. Lewis’ home to mourn in private.

 

\--

 

In the following years whenever Simon thought back to the moment of his undead resurrection, he would come to the frustrating conclusion that most of his memories had become muddled. Raphael would tell him, ‘It’s a form of self-preservation.’ And true, Simon supposed, your mind would rather forget about a traumatic event than play it over and over on repeat for the rest of eternity. Still, it bothered him that apart from an eerie feeling of unease and a vague recollection of unparalleled hunger, nothing of that night was clear in his mind.

 

Raphael witnessed and remembered everything with alarming clarity.

 

Officially a sire and never one to shirk his responsibilities, Raphael had dutifully awaited Simon’s awakening. Earlier in the evening he had stocked a few pouches of fresh blood in his leather backpack. He was fully prepared for a ravenous and panicking Simon, and ravenous and panicking he surely was. The nerves and fumbling Raphael had witnessed when Simon was still alive had increased tenfold.

 

So Raphael did what anyone does when standing opposite a wild beast: remain calm and attempt to appease. Avoid eye contact. Not wasting any time, he threw the pouches on the overturned earth in front of Simon and waited until they were drained. The sound of the thick liquid sloshing and gurgling down Simon’s throat amplified in his ears as he contemplated his handiwork with a warring feeling of excitement and regret.

 

He needed to remain practical about this. Forget about the tempting smell and the taste of Simon Lewis. Could he ignore the flux of words he would soon start to associate with that smell –heady heavy heavenly and liquid and warm and whole and wasted—

 

“Raphael?”

 

 

 

_Before — July; Oh, these impulses!_

 

 

Managing Simon Lewis became somewhat of a full-time job in the first few weeks of his new existence. Raphael needed these stilted terms like _managing, handling,_ and _training_ to maintain a certain level of professionalism that would dissuade him from acting on impulses he’d otherwise regret.

 

“Impulses?” asked Lily, his best friend at the old Dumort hotel.

 

“Impulses,” he confirmed with an air of distaste, as if the word itself debased him.

 

She encouraged him to continue, but he refused.

 

For the time being, Simon honed his skills as a fledgeling and spent most of his time whining about his death and foregoing gratitude despite being offered a new chance at life, and lamenting the separation from his family and best friend, the redhead Raphael had spotted at the market. They struck the following deal:

 

Simon smacked against the furthermost wall of the training compound and groaned as he attempted to sit up.

 

Raphael walked up to him.

 

“Why not?” Simon groaned. “Why can’t I visit my family? You do! Lily sees her sister! It’s not fair.” He rubbed against his chest and swore at the rapidly forming bruises.

 

“You’ve got the poor impulse control of a newborn. Get up.”

 

Simon got up and dodged the first two swipes, after which he lost his balance and once more slammed into the wall with an _oomph!_

 

He muttered angrily, “Poor _impulse_ control”, as if he hadn’t lunged at a poor human girl on the sidewalk just a few days earlier, before Raphael had violently yanked him back.

 

Simon moved to stand and put his hands on his knees, letting his neck drop. Raphael turned away.

 

“Grouse all you like. As long as you don’t _sprout fang_ every time a talking blood bag walks by, you are not going anywhere. Perhaps if you continue training..”

 

One habit Simon hadn’t fully given up yet was breathing unnecessarily. Especially during training, he fell into the familiar rhythm. At the moment he was panting, and almost too distracted to notice the sliver of hope offered to him.

 

“Wait, are you considering—?”

 

“Only if you stop whining, _dios_. And get up, for heaven’s sake. You’re a vampire.”

 

Now, Raphael had not forgotten about the plan involving Garroway and he very much doubted Simon had either. He was a patient man. At the moment Camille was hot on his heels about having created a fledgeling without her permission. Not only did she punish him for his indefensible action, but to his horror, she grew much too fascinated by Simon and his _caramel_ scent. She attempted to lure him in, to seduce him with fresh blood and pliant humans. She was in her fascination as she was in everything else, covetous and greedy. God forbid she take notice of his poorly disguised cravings.

 

Most of Raphael’s attention was focussed on keeping her away, training Simon, and continue his work at Dumort. Luckily, as the weeks went by, Raphael blocking Camille’s passage and indirectly declaring Simon as his own to the entire Dumort, she grew bored and turned her attention on someone else.

 

 

 

 

 

_Before — August; You smell incredible, but please go wash yourself_

 

 

 

For one tantalizing moment, Raphael allowed himself to stare at a sunbathing Simon.

 

Taking Simon out in the sunlight for the first time – fledgelings’ skins were so pale and brittle, he hadn’t risked it until today, after copious amounts of begging – was like taking a child to a candy store. Everything seemed fascinating to him. He pointed out whatever interested him, providing an endless burst of empty yet animated commentary to which Raphael occasionally nodded and hummed. All around them people were milling about, enjoying the early evening sun and the cooling breeze.

 

Now, as they were sat near the river banks of the Hudson, he was simply taking in the view of the person who kept him awake most days and nights.

 

His thoughts drifted and he took in his the people around him. In the distance a mother rocked her little baby to and fro. Whenever he grew pensive he had the tendency to frown and become immobile, and drown out his surroundings. While he fixated on the water in front of him, he didn’t realize Simon had stopped speaking, and almost missed how he himself had become the object of attention.

 

“Mh? What? Whatdidyousay?” Simon scratched his head. He grunted and coughed.

 

“I didn’t.”

 

“Oh, ah. All right.”

 

“Let’s go for a walk.”

 

Raphael offered his hand to help Simon up. He lingered.

 

“How do you like the sunlight?” He adjusted his jacket, opening and closing the cuff on his right sleeve. “Enjoying it?”

 

“Oh, yeah! Absolutely. I’ve missed this.” He patted his cheeks after a few seconds of silence. They walked at a slow pace.

 

At times – most times, truly – Simon was terribly awkward and Raphael did not have patience for it. He grabbed Simon’s chin and observed his skin with a critical eye. “You’ve already caught a sunburn.” Simon batted his hand away and averted his eyes.

 

In some ways they were opposite. Whereas Simon lived for daylight, lit up in the sun, he preferred the night. He loved the darkness, which seemed full of possibilities. The city, though not exactly a bustling urban centre, held a maze of secret corners and streets and was lit up not by natural sunlight, but flickering oil lamps and candle stubs hiding in window sills.

 

The sun slowly set in the west. It turned red and bloated, fat. As the night settled in, Raphael felt himself come alive.

 

Raphael thought of broaching the subject of Garroway. To be completely honest, he was surprised Simon hadn’t yet attempted to flee Dumort and join his family and friends. True, Raphael kept a strict eye on him, but that was mostly to avoid any bloodshed of a new fledgeling who did not yet have control over his impulses. He had expected Simon to sneak out as soon as he was left by himself. Up until now they had had no such troubles. Perhaps, Raphael thought, he does not find it so terrible with us after all. Perhaps he is satisfied knowing they are safe and healthy.

 

It was time for the next step of the plan.

 

“Tell me again, how close are you to Garroway?”

 

“Luke? We’re practically family. Almost— After my father died, I spent a lot of time with Clary, whose mother knows him well.”

 

“I need more details.”

 

Simon sighed and scratched at his nose. “Her mother travels a lot, selling her dyes all over. So Clary and me, we’re home alone a lot. When we were younger Luke used to watch over us from time to time.”

 

Simon detailed more stories of his infancy and Garroway, who, judging from what he heard, appeared to be completely harmless and even quite the father figure to Simon. More than ever, Raphael was sure of his plan. This would all work out perfectly.

 

“I want to meet with him.”

 

If Simon was surprised, he did not show it. He nodded and said, “Exactly what am I saying yes to?”

 

“A simple meeting. The lycans are not too fond of our kind as you are bound to figure out very soon, but he will see you. Perhaps it would work to our advantage if you involved the shadowhunter.”

 

Explaining the shadow world to Simon had been an aggravating task as he could barely fathom Clary’s mother belonging to an army of angels. It had grown more complicated attempting to explain what role she played in the shadowhunter history.

 

Raphael continued, “Despite her earlier involvement with the Circle, her relations to Garroway ascertain for her willingness to help a ceasefire.”

 

Simon rolled his eyes at the stiff, formal speech. “Uh-huh. Right. So what you’re saying is, if it helps her beau to be safer, she’ll be willing to work with us?”

 

“Yes, Simon, that is what I mean.”

 

“Great.”

 

“The first thing to do, then, is to approach Clary and Jocelyn. Subtly, if you please.”

 

“Is there a subtle way to announce you’re not dead and have suddenly grown fangs? I don’t think so.”

 

Raphael sighed.

 

“All right, all right, yeah, I know what you mean.”

 

“I’m not sure you do.”

 

“Sure I do! I’ve been paying attention to you. You’re like the diplomat king. I can be diplomatic,” he nodded to himself, “I can do subtle.”

 

When Clary nearly screeched her head off after she overwhelmed Simon with a shocked, tight embrace and he popped his fangs. She then proceeded to whack poor Simon with a mop, and Raphael confirmed that he was in fact not capable of subtlety. He firmly grabbed Simon by the arm and out of Clary’s reach and the swinging mop, and made sure no accidents took place.

 

The next hour was a whirlwind of questions and tears of relief and anger, at which Raphael politely turned to the side to offer the semblance of privacy. Jocelyn narrowed her eyes in his direction and he explained the situation with tranquil composure, including his precarious position in the clan and Camille’s inefficiency as a leader.

 

Whether it was his level-headed demeanour or Jocelyn’s concern about Camille, she seemed inclined to believe him.

 

Garroway was far more difficult to convince, though Raphael had expected nothing less. They had met a few times before, especially since Camille often chose the dangerous role of mediator for Raphael. Delivering bad news and groundless demands was rarely met with enthusiasm. Garroway addressed him with a simple ‘Santiago’.

 

As the leader of the pack, it was his responsibility to protect and to be sceptical. Raphael went through the list of reasons as to why it would be favourable for all parties involved if Camille were deposed, even to her own clan.

 

When he finally relented and seemed open to discussion, he folded his arms and said, “What do you propose?” Raphael’s feeling of wariness waned quickly, and would he have any breath left, he would have heaved a sigh of relief. He sent a quick prayer of thanks to the sky.

 

“As unlikely as it may be,” and here he could not help the slight grimace that crept on his face, “I propose we band together and dethrone the queen, so to speak.”

 

“Dethrone,” Garroway repeated, and next to him, Simon pinched his lips. “Is that a euphemism for murder or what are you suggesting?”

 

“It is not. There’s a prison cell in the Great Hall with her name written on it.”

 

“Do you really think iron bars will contain her?”

 

“Who said anything about iron bars?”

 

They parted on uneasy terms, agreeing to let it all sink in and take council with their clan and pack. Raphael knew for a fact that many of the Dumort residents assumed the same line of thought as he did.

 

Thirty minutes later, spurred on by a successful first meeting, Raphael promptly turned to Simon. It was well past sunset and drizzled slightly.

 

“We will stink of lycan if we go back now.”

 

“Oh, I hadn’t even thought of that,” said Simon. He smelled under his arms as if the essence of the lycan stink would have assembled there. “Won’t the rain take care of that? Rain doesn’t actually smell too good.” It had accentuated the scent of muddied straw and splashes of urine in corners of the street.

 

“No.”

 

After turning the corner of a small tavern, Raphael divvied up a few coins in his palm and stopped Simon.

 

“What are you doing? Why are we stopping here?”

 

Raphael led him by the hand and entered the small inn. The innkeeper nodded at him and counted a few pieces of silver. He could have gone to one of the clan-owned inns, but this lent him discretion. Simon caught the innkeeper curl her lips at their entwined hands and he let go, only to have his hand snatched back and drawn in with an unfamiliar but reassuring press.

 

“And two baths, please,” Raphael said. “With _hot_ water, not tepid.” These sort of intimacies were usually not frowned upon, and he had little tolerance for narrow-minded bigots such as her tonight.

 

“Of course.”

 

They went upstairs without exchanging a word.

 

On the edge of the two baths the maid had laid out two rough sponges and soap bars smelling of the sea. The scent was pungent enough it would erase some of the lycan.

 

“This seems a bit excessive,” Simon hedged uneasily, switching his weight from foot to foot, but Raphael paid his nerves no mind and instructed him to strip and get into the water.

 

Once they were both seated in the tubs and were scrubbing the sponge and soap to clean their skin, Simon asked, “Is this going to be necessary each time? It’ll be expensive.”

 

“I don’t want to risk anything.”

 

“No, yeah, sure, of course,” Simon said as he sank a bit deeper into the water, right until his lips reached the surface. As he spoke, little bubbles formed. “That is probably safest. But it does feel like a real luxury. I only took two baths a week back when I was still living at home, and those I had to share with my sister. This!” he splashed the water and flicked some over to Raphael, “this is almost vanity. And if I concentrate it’s nearly hot, the water. I bet to mundanes this would be scorching! And look!” He hefted one arm up. “My skin’s not even red.”

 

He changed the subject and became timid when he noticed Raphael taking every inch of bare skin. His scent grew heavy and Raphael could almost imagine the heat coming from Simon’s skin if he were bold enough to trace it.

 

When they were both washed and getting dressed, smelling faintly of the soap, a devious little scheme formed in his mind.

 

“You know, I’m not sure all the traces of lycan are erased just yet.”

 

At his loose tone, Simon paused buttoning shirt and sighed irritably. He had not caught on at all. “Well, then I don’t know what else we can do. I already smell like a garden.”

 

“I may have an idea.”

 

He caught on slowly.

 

Simon cleared his throat and directed his eyes to the floor. The floorboards were damp, their bare feet leaving prints all over.

 

Praying he had not misread many, many signs, Raphael eased his way forward and gave Simon an almost undetectable shiver as he traced the veins along Simon’s hands and forearms, then in the crook near his collarbone and across the surface of his throat, ending at the artery, where he bent forward. For the first time in almost six months, Simon’s neck was fully exposed and unobstructed to him, the smell stripped to its essence, and taking it in was like an all-you-can eat buffet, dizzying and nauseating. Raphael opened his mouth and put his tongue on Simon’s skin, pulling with his teeth.

 

When they returned to Dumort, Camille asked, with a broad grin, “Kill any innocent strangers, baby?” before quickly pulling her nose up and complaining loudly of the disgusting odour of pheromones. She called it a particularly poignant stench. Sex was favourable, but yearning and affect were distasteful to her. A waste of time.

 

Raphael smiled cordially and squeezed Simon’s hand.

 

His success was twofold. Not only had he managed to divest any suspicion as to their earlier whereabouts, but he had now been privy to the thrilling experience of knowing exactly where Simon tasted the sweetest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mistakes, anyone? Lemme know éhè!  
> How are you liking it?


	3. Chapter 3

_Before — August; Golly, isn’t that just worrisome?_

 

Camille had subjugates. It was a fate worse than the Black Death, Raphael thought. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like, to live as an addict, a human so desperately dependant on vampire blood to survive the day.

 

Camille never thought of these matters. Unlike the official code of the clan indicated, she did not contend herself with animal blood or the supply from infirmarian’s or the barber-surgeon, both of whom assembled it by bleeding people. It was a silly belief, really, that an excess amount of blood upset the humour balance, but if it meant having access to human blood, Raphael would accept it.

 

Of course, when the clan consumed it, the human blood was mixed with the animal blood, otherwise the danger of addiction would be too great. The Accords forbade them to consume it otherwise. Every now and then, a stumpy little man in a suit, a prim shadowhunter the entire clan despised, would show up at the Dumort and test their intake and their stock. The indignity went even further; a random member was pricked with a thick needle until the inspector was satisfied.

 

Raphael had only drunk pure human blood a few times in his life. Each memory was bittersweet. It gave you a heady feeling but always left you craving more. Afterwards, you’d feel erratic and reckless for days, much like the up-and-down of a sugar rush and the ensuing desensitized exhaustion. For a vampire, that was dangerous.

 

 

 

_Before — August; Oh, them hot summer days_

 

Simon and Raphael were lying on top of the sheets in their usual room at the inn. The weather was clammy and hot. Simon beat a wild rhythm on one of the cushions while Raphael’s mind wandered.

 

The hotel Dumort, one of the first grand hotels to open in the city, was once a magnificent building impressing every passer-by with its ornate steps leading to an arched entryway permanently adorned with flowers in bloom. The richest folk came from all over the land to enjoy a luxurious stay in rooms that were well-cared for, they were given fresh smelling sheets and complementary glasses of spritz if deemed important enough.

 

These days, however, the hotel had fallen into disrepair. The once bustling business was empty and the outer walls got defaced by gangs and careless visitors. Camille Belcourt, esteemed leader of the guilds, had taken over the hotel, and though she cared little for the outward appearance of the place, the inside still shined with expensive materials —she would not live in squalor. The hotel was in fact ‘ground zero’ for her vampire clan, of which the public knew nothing, and she felt the downtrodden appearance of the building served secrecy well. Her official lodgings were located in one of the wealthiest homes next to the trader’s market, where she – supposedly – could keep an eye on her business matters.

 

As if she cares about business, thought Raphael. She hasn’t cared in years. Many people of the city knew. Most weren’t powerful enough to do anything about it and Camille had spies everywhere. She nipped any rebelling action in the bud. If only Raphael could convince all of his clan that she was worthless, but there were still too many of them on her side.

 

“What are you thinking ‘bout?”

 

He stopped tracing patterns on Simon’s bare back. The room had been silent up until now for a very long time save for Simon playing out the beats to a song Raphael didn’t recognize.

 

“Nothing.”

 

Despite the ensuing insistence otherwise on Simon’s part, Raphael remained quiet and immobile, save for the hand trailing up and down Simon’s spine, pressing down on each knobble and drawing patterns between his shoulder blades. No blood ran through his veins, but to Raphael, it felt warm all the same.

 

The room they stayed in was usually the same. Simon called it their love nest. Raphael objected to the name. Thick curtains hung heavy covering the walls opposite the door. The room was sparsely furnished, only the bare essentials and one or two trinkets to give it the illusion of familiarity, like the framed design of an astrological map hanging above a small wooden dresser, or the glass vase with jasmine flowers atop the night stand.

 

How had he ended up here? There was a man before him who demanded all his attention, someone who had lived through nineteen years without Raphael never having thought of him once. All of a sudden Simon was here and Raphael had lost notion of distance and restraint.

 

If he were being honest, did he even try to refrain? Not really. After Simon was turned, he never seemed too opposed to Raphael’s plan to deal with Garroway, and it put him in an easy mood, a malleable and obliging mood. He hadn’t objected too much when he fell into bed with Simon.

 

“Raphael.”

 

He grunted.

 

“Raphael.” Simon wriggled his back and turned around to face Raphael.

 

“What?”

 

Raphael didn’t want to leave the bed. The sheets were warm and soft, almost sweaty.

 

The servant and innkeeper were downstairs gossiping about town folk, and the rooms nearby were vacant. If he took stock of the previous months, the previous year even, there was hardly a moment that matched up to the peace he felt right now, despite his earlier musings about the sad state of the clan and Camille.

 

“Oh, wow,” Simon said, sitting up straight. Raphael laid back into the cushions. “I understand it now. That frown of yours is permanent, even when you’re happy.” With his fingers he pushed against the upturned corners of Raphael’s mouth. “I thought—,”

 

“What?”

 

“I thought – no. I’ll rephrase,” Simon mumbled, pushing up his glasses. “Is this – are you happy? This is you when you’re happy, right?” A large grin broke on his face and it almost made Raphael uncomfortable. He averted his eyes. He felt uncertain and suddenly lost his courage. Instead of affirming Simon’s thoughts, he schooled his face, closed his eyes and waited for Simon’s interest to wane.

 

Of course, knowing Simon, it wouldn’t.

 

The bed dipped and Raphael blinked to find Simon’s face a breath away.

 

Every inch of skin, from the edge of his brow to the littlest dent right above his left cheek, Raphael had already memorized it weeks ago. When he became a little too transfixed, something inside him became boisterous, he became an adrenaline-fuelled body that ached to let out noise or words or demanded to move. The soft grip he had around Simon’s wrist tightened and Raphael felt as if he would burst, driven to barely contained elation and his nails pierced skin—

 

“Sorry,” he apologized quietly, quickly pulling the wrist closer and cleaning the wound.

 

Simon watched him with a sharp look and Raphael felt immensely fortunate that this – at times – dense moron was sensible enough not to push at his frail edges.

 

A familiar feeling of frustration kept creeping back whenever they were together, especially like this, naked and lying in bed together. Whatever itch Raphael felt, it was not scratched by sex. He didn’t mind sex –obviously Simon experienced great pleasure from it, but for Raphael it felt slightly different, as if intercourse was a byproduct or a derivate, and the term love-making encompassed something else. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what that was, though.

 

Perhaps it was the moment Simon held him in a death grip and repeated his name, and forgot all about the way excess strength was bruising him into the mattress.

 

Perhaps it was the moment Raphael recognized the look in Simon’s eyes and felt it reflected in his own, like a perfect mirror.

 

Perhaps it was something much more clinical, like arousing pheromones reacting to one another.

 

Perhaps it was the novel experience of recognizing someone he, oddly enough, had complete trust in, someone he feverishly wished to promise his faith to, and the guileless expressions on Simon’s face as they moved back and forth gave Raphael all the proof of trust he needed.

 

Perhaps it was something much simpler. He was wanted and it felt good.

 

So he did what he would always do: he spoke soft words in his mother tongue, an alien language to Simon that he did not understand, and he masked it as sweet nothings, strange and seemingly confident whispers that belied his openness and stuttering excitement.

 

“ _Otra vez_. _No estoy felize—,_ ”

 

“Oh!” Simon groused, “I can’t understand you. Stop.”

 

“— _pero estoy aprendiendo a ser mucho más, tal vez entero, a pesar de sentir como si estuviera perdiendo la cordura, así como, finalmente, recuperarlo._ ”

 

Simon tried to pinch his laugh into a smile. “Stop. You’re just making fun of me, aren’t you?”

 

“ _No, querido, de ningún modo.”_

Simon was visibly pleased. At least he recognized one word. “But it does sound good, though.”

 

Raphael hummed and pushed his thumb into Simon’s palm.

 

“You’re a mysterious misfit, we get it. Doesn’t make me love you any less.”

 

Raphael grunted, undeniably pleased as well.

 

“ _Y eres mío para tener._ ”

 

 

 

 _Before — September; No Way in Hell_ _!_

 

Back at the Dumort, life was different. Raphael acted in a distant and reserved manner, often downplaying his attachment to Simon in the hopes of keeping Camille’s interest at bay. His poorly thought-through plan did not always work, like now:

 

Simon stumbled out of Camille’s living quarters looking a little green. He hastily made his way across the hall and turned the corner, out of sight.

 

Raphael had witnessed this little inconsistency a week ago and it still irked him. No word had come from either Simon or Camille, both of them denying the occurrence and declaring him to be hallucinating. According to Camille, who staggered her way over to him in a drunken stupor and jabbed him in the chest, he was becoming obsessive. According to Simon, there was probably just some misunderstanding. Perhaps he’d been sleepwalking, Simon rationalized.

 

None of these flimsy explanations contented Raphael.

 

It was time to move forward, and quickly.

 

 

\--

 

 

The dethroning of Camille Belcourt was extraordinarily dull and anticlimactic. The outcome, despite being what Raphael had hoped, itched under his skin.

 

The queen of the vampires was high as a kite on pure human blood when a pack of werewolves stormed in and pinned down her limbs, shackled her wrists on her back, carried her all the way to the Great Hall, and threw her into one of the prison cellars. Raphael’s part of the plan, occupying the more stubborn clan members who still considered Camille their leader, had gone off without a hitch, too.

 

Obviously, something was not right.

 

A month after Camille had been taken down and he was still nitpicking, Simon told him, “Stop worrying, Chri-chri-crikey!” He still choked on the word. “She’s gone now, isn’t that what you wanted?”

 

Raphael stared down at the bronze clan ring on his finger and continued to inspect it as if it would give him some answers.

 

Simon was bold in his ministrations: he unbuttoned Raphael’s shirt with impatience, ignored Raphael’s annoyed sighs, and put Raphael’s hand down his own pants.

 

No. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something felt off. It niggled at the back of his mind. He was going to pay Camille a visit.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Spanish: Again. I’m not happy, but I am learning to be much more, maybe even complete, despite feeling as if I am losing my sanity, as well as, finally, regaining it. / No, love, not at al. / And you’re mine to keep.)


	4. Chapter 4

_Now — October; Hestia protects, doesn’t she?_

 

 

After Raphael left the Dumort, Simon had their room all to himself.

 

It was a grand, luxurious room, nothing like Simon had been used to when he still lived at home with his mother and sister. Back at home, he had a small cot, a hard mattress, and a threadbare blanket. In winter, he slept next to his sister to remain warm.

 

Here, however, even in the slightest October chill, a fire burned in the hearth and the bedroom was pleasantly warm. Vampires got cold, too, oddly enough. He rubbed his icy skin and scooted closer to the fire, watching the flames dance.

 

But the fire was only the beginning. His familial house paled in comparison to his new bedroom. Thick blankets, richly embroidered cushions, no cracks in the door letting in the wind, no draft in the corners, an endless supply of oil lamps and candles, these were all luxuries to him.

 

Simon grew bored of staring at the fire and fiercely wished he had less time on his hands. He ached for something to do, before he returned to _her_. He did not understand exactly what it was that drew him back, he could not pinpoint his comings and goings, he was only acutely aware that his mind rarely wandered when Raphael was around, as if Raphael was safety, and he was in danger of losing yet another chunk of memory whenever Raphael eventually left for business.

 

He did not understand at all and barely registered when he lost a moment of time. It centred on Camille, that much he knew, which is why he attempted to keep away from her. Those lost moments of time, however, always echoed her uncanny smiles and flowery smell, and Simon figured out he had been sneaking away to Camille from time to time.

 

A sense of loyalty and shame kept him from saying anything to Raphael. The events were so blurry, Simon almost thought he’d imagined this whole vampire thing all together.

 

Besides, he rationalized, poking at the fire with a metal rod, I will not return to her. I swear I won’t. She has nothing to offer, and I will stay with Raphael.

 

 

 

_Before — May; Mary had a little lamb, a little lamb – and she abused it._

 

 

Camille Belcourt prided herself on being a hedonist. Life was full and bright, and it was hers to enjoy.

 

If we couldn’t enjoy our time here on earth, what else did we exist for? She had grown up in a poor family, her mother and father, and her dozen siblings, scraping for small bits of food, haggling for cloth to keep them covered, treading after the rich in the hopes of snagging a few coins. All her life as a human, she had been miserable, hungry and cold. She had learned to fight and survive, but took no pleasure in it.

 

Now she thrived. Now she _lived_. And she lived in wealth, in warmth.

 

Her whole life she feared of never having enough, of going to bed hungry, and now she never had to worry again. All her anxieties were soothed with the undead life.

 

But Camille had never had a good grip on her desires, and they ran away from her, they grew to unachievable proportions. Her thirst for the good life led many astray as they succumbed to her whims, but as long as she was fed and warm, full and happy, she was all right.

 

At a certain moment during the hundred years of her undead existence, a smell so ravishing entered her Dumort. From the first sniff, enticing and rich, she knew she had to have it.

 

The smell belonged to a young man named Simon Lewis. He’d been turned by her insubordinate second, Raphael. Despite chastising Raphael for turning someone without her consent, she was secretly pleased. Now Simon was an open buffet.

 

Long before any suspicion could grow in Raphael’s mind, she’d sunk her teeth in Simon’s neck. She didn’t care for his mouth or his tongue, only his veins. To keep Raphael from having a fit, she encantoed Simon to keep his mouth shut. She dutifully covered up the punctures she caused, healing them quickly with the strength hidden in her ancient blood.

 

And long before she confirmed that Raphael was plotting against her, she’d had Simon in the palm of her hand.

 

“Keep him distracted. By any means, if you understand what I’m saying,” Camille had ordered Simon. Meekly, like a little lamb, he’d nodded. Simon was always meek. Compliant.

 

As if Raphael, a newborn of only eighty years could overthrow her. The idea was laughable. Dozens of spies, posted all over the city, heeded her commands, and it took only a few days after the first meeting between Raphael and Garroway for her to learn of their allegiance.

 

Then Raphael had come up with the idea of using their combined scent, the swelling scent of skin and sex, to cover up his meetings with Garroway. She mostly ran high on pure human blood these days, and it took some effort not to laugh. That the two of them had formed _that_ kind of relationship, it was almost too good to be true. This fake relationship of theirs was all she could have wished for. And Simon didn’t show any pains or confusions of being under the influence of _encanto_. Everything was going according to plan.

 

She was free to enjoy the world as she moulded it.

 

She was lucky, she certainly admitted that.

 

 

 

_Now — November; An eye for an eye, and all that!_

 

 

As a human, Raphael had been told to follow his instincts, to follow his gut. As a vampire, the sentiment applied even more, having a somewhat increased animal instinct.

 

He should’ve followed his gut. He should’ve kept a permanent eye on Camille. He should’ve placed guards next to her cell he knew personally, people he trusted. He should’ve talked to her, attempted to understand her mind instead of flaunting his success and spitting in her face like some insolent boy.

 

Because now?

 

Now he stood knee-deep in mud in a dark, cramped little space with nothing but his own arrogance and nonchalance to blame. He should’ve paid more attention. He should’ve followed his gut.

 

In a sick twist of fate, their roles had been reversed: Raphael, starved and exhausted, nearly mad, on his knees in a grimy, frigid cell, and Camille towering over him with a satisfied smile.

 

“So,” she started with a wicked grin. “How do you like it, rotting in your own filth?”

 

Raphael refused to raise to the bait. In fact, he refused to open his mouth. In that moment, as Camille approached the metal bars and exuded an air of triumph and haughtiness, he swore on his mother’s grave that he would have his revenge.

 

“See, I knew I’d get out of here, but _you_? Abandon all hope. You’re never getting out. I think it’s an adequate punishment for betraying your clan leader. And you can kiss your little werewolf rescuer goodbye.” She threw Garroway’s ring, the proof of his being the pack leader, on the ground next to him. “He’s gone.” After a brief moment of silence, she added, “And you will be too, soon enough.”

 

A small, strangled gasp rang from behind her.

 

During the entire exchange, Raphael had steadily tried to ignore the smell he recognized so well, the smell belonging to someone he cared deeply for. But he couldn’t understand what Camille had brought Simon along for. Did she wish to throw it in his face, that he had lost everything? Did she— As far as Raphael knew, Camille’s obsession with his sugary blood had waned months ago.

 

Camille turned around with surprise, as she had forgotten Simon was there.

 

“Oh, yes, your little caramel. I thought it best for him to be here.”

 

Raphael kept his mouth shut, but on the inside he was burning with questions. Behind Camille, Simon still stood half veiled in the shadows of the flickering torch that illuminated the small corridors. He appeared dazed, staring unfocusedly at a point between his feet and the cell. Barely moving, he didn’t even seem aware of what was happening. What on earth had she done to him?

 

“Simon,” Camille said impatiently.

 

He moved his head slowly at the sound of his name and attempted to focus. His eyes continued to wander, however, and stopped somewhere near the end of the hall. Simon swallowed and let out a little huff.

 

“Mh,” Camille concluded. “Well, he’s had better times, I suppose.”

 

Almost afraid, Raphael asked, “Simon?”

 

Simon didn’t react. He kept staring.

 

Camille snorted. “Your little _darling,_ the sweetest confection I’ve had the pleasure to feed on, is the one who helped me escape, isn’t it so?” She smiled broadly and bumped her shoulder into Simon’s and he swayed forward, putting one hand on the wall and slowly turning toward Raphael. They caught each other’s gaze, and while Raphael’s was naked, confusion and hurt clear on his features, Simon betrayed only the littlest sign of discomfort and quickly looked sideways.

 

“Isn’t it so, Simon?” Camille reiterated. “Tell him the truth.” She had the gall to laugh.

 

The air felt charged, and Raphael recognized the odd haze of _encanto_ hanging in the words she spoken. “ _Tell him_.”

 

Simon swallowed again and smacked his lips, nodding absently. “Yes.” Yes? “The —I did help her. They all trust me. Because I’m— Camille is …”

 

He had obvious trouble forming his words and Raphael didn’t manage to supress the snarl coming from his mouth. “What did you do to him?” he demanded, rage simmering under his skin. His fangs grew and he slurred.

 

“Nothing at all,” Camille denied. “Nothing he didn’t want. I think. _Tell him_ , Simon, sweetie.”

 

Simon nodded once more. “Yes. I helped her escape this place. She is our rightful leader. You and I aren’t … _that_.” His words trailed off and sounded full of hesitancy and regret, but Raphael, in his anger and betrayal, didn’t recognize the vulnerability. Instead, Raphael lashed out and knocked into the iron bars of his cell.

 

He growled and tried to swipe at Camille. She stood just out of reach.

 

She _tsk_ ed. “Now that’s not a lot of restraint to show for a leader, mh? I told you, he wasn’t yours. And your lovesick heart has made you blind. Thank the gods.”

 

Camille laughed and gave a sigh of relief. She then turned on her heel and walked away.

 

In the corner of the corridor, still only half lit, Simon lingered with downcast eyes. Whatever vulnerability there had been before, it was gone. Simon’s face was empty and Raphael didn’t recognize him.

 

Camille yelled an impatient _hurry up!_ and Simon trailed after like a little duckling, leaving Raphael overwhelmed and heaving big breaths he hadn’t needed in decades. Had he really been this blind? Had he really been so eager to love Simon he didn’t even notice Simon never felt the same?

 

 

 

_Now — December; Ain’t that a shame?_

 

 

Bit by bit, at a glacial pace, Simon started to make sense of what was happening. Two weeks after he’d visited Raphael’s cell, he understood what Camille had brought him along for. To gloat. To point at Simon and say to Raphael, _look how you messed up_.

 

His memory was a fog. He’d believed Raphael, that moment when Raphael had said that the mind is an armour of its own and protects you. It shields certain traumatic memories, just like his resurrection. It seemed like a valid explanation for the gaps in his mind. He’d written them off as similar act of self protection.

 

Now, as the fog began to clear and he started to remember more of the recent months, he realized it had not been self-protection.

 

With nausea-inducing horror and panic, slowly the realization settled in that he had not been acting like himself for months. He had been forgetting and lying for her, following muddled commands and irrational tasks.

 

Simon touched his neck briefly, worrying over the skin he now knew Camille had punctured many times.

 

Raphael had only bitten him there once, and Simon had of thought the experience as unforgettable, intimate and private. The memory felt violated now. Was he even connected to Raphael anymore? Was it the marionette version of himself that craved Raphael’s attention? Following a command? Or was it different, honest?

 

Simon nearly lost the contents of his stomach the moment he remembered that Camille had ordered him to seduce Raphael. _By any means necessary._ Had his puppet self interpreted that as sleeping with him, or had it been real?

 

Camille’s interest in his blood, his sweet caramel blood – and he had started to grow hateful of the sugary terms, the sweet nothings she employed to keep him at ease –, it all started to wane.

 

Not two months after Raphael had traded places with the queen herself, she lost all interest in Simon and moved on to the next poor, unsuspecting soul, devouring it like a beast with an insatiable appetite. She was a glutton. She had ruined him. He was sobering up. He was shaking. He was staring at his hands and wondered if they were capable of good, or evil.

 

In the dead of night he curled into himself while undead life at Dumort went on, while Clary and Jocelyn mourned Luke, while life in the city continued at a rapid pace.

 

He curled into himself and cursed Camille. What else could he do?

 

 

_Now — January; Blah, blah, you bore me, baby!_

 

 

Camille was luckier than she would even realize. Even her end was somewhat indulgent.

 

The truth was, Camille had never even considered the possibility that the fabricated relationship she orchestrated could ever hold a grain of truth, never mind fidelity or real attachment. She had never prepared for the danger she herself had created.

 

Now that Raphael rotted away in his dirty cave and her entire clan had been straightened out – some of them even disposed of, as their loyalties lay too close to Raphael, like that infernal Lily whom she despised – Camille felt at ease. Almost all of them were loyal to a fault. The Raphael stunt had been forgotten. They stood with her, and would avenge anyone who betrayed her.

 

Once again, she drowned in pleasure, her desires getting the best of her.

 

Her end was indulgent.

 

Her end, her death during an undead life of over hundreds of years, years of fortifying and growing stealthier and wiser and stronger, ah, her end was indulgent. Camille Belcourt died sated, hungry for more, snapping up what she desired.

 

Camille died with her fangs embedded in a warm neck.

 

The truth was, she had become sorely uninterested in Simon –he grew antsy and melancholy, always worrying about Raphael, and it bored her to no end. Even the sweet taste of caramel soured with his affectation. How dull. Simon whined about the wretch wasting away in the ditch of a cellar, he whined about his actions and he felt guilty – a truly wasteful emotion. She did not care to understand that type of devotion.

 

Camille had no notions of that sort. It was a waste of time.

 

But her desires got the best of her, and when one day Simon sulked in the kitchens of Dumort and cut his palm with a large butcher knife, that sweet smell came rushing back to her nose, and she remembered with fondness some times they had spent together.

 

She pretended to fuss over him, to soothe him with calming words as he stood forlorn with the knife limp in his hand, and, not waiting for any acquiescence, she licked the blood off his hand and sucked at the wound.

 

Without warning, a stabbing pain erupted from her chest —

 

The knife, gruesome and big and awkward, protruded from her breast and she spat a mouthful of blood on Simon’s frightened face. The blood stood out against his pale skin.

 

Blood quickly filled her lungs and she could no longer speak.

 

If she had been able, she would have cursed him to hell and back. The only thing she was capable of doing, apart from gripping Simon’s bleeding arm until it creaked with tension, was use her free hand to slash at his face.

 

Simon yowled and shot back, pawing at his bleeding eye. He cried, but by the time he was conscious of the dead silence in the Dumort, Camille lay dead at his feet in a pool of her own blood.

 

She still wore a small smile on her features, as if she found pleasure even in death.

 

 

 

_Now — January; Oh, Lord, you know, I have no love like you_

 

 

Worse than the stench and the stiffness of being locked up, was the utter boredom. Facing day in, day out, with nothing to look forward to was absolute torture.

 

Raphael counted his ribs. He was growing weaker by the minute.

 

On the eighty-third day of his incarceration, Raphael smelled Simon before he could see him.

 

And as if a mirage, Simon suddenly stood before him, bleeding from his neck and forearm.

 

For the longest while, they stared at one another. Raphael knew that couldn’t have been easy for Simon, who was always prone to mindless chatter to avoid any empty conversations.

 

He waited.

 

“She rarely asked about Luke,” Simon finally started. His features seemed sad. After all, his father figure had passed away. “She was so … obsessed, almost, with my—,” he stammered and blushed faintly, uncomfortable with the truth, “my sm– my blood, my smell, that she just– that it didn’t come up.”

 

Still Raphael waited.

 

“The entire clan’s after me now, I think I’m in d—. Camille’s—,” he abruptly shut up.

 

Simon shuffled from one foot to the other. “I guess I can only hope you believe me when I say that she suckered me into it —tricked me into it, sorry, she tricked me, she fooled me. G-od. She used, uhm, _encanto_ ,” and at this he shook his head helplessly, “I still haven’t worked out all the details, but I’m sure that was it. I can’t remember it all correctly.” His lips were pinched.

 

Even though Raphael knew him to speak the truth, it was difficult to respond.

 

“And the … all that happened between us … at the inn, you know, I’m sorry.”

 

“You’re sorry? What for?” his voice had gotten scratchy from disuse.

 

“You know,” Simon hedged. Of course he knew.

 

“Enlighten me.”

 

Simon sighed and tapped his foot against the ground. “I meant it. I did. I do. But it’s all shrouded, like, hidden or forgotten almost, and I can’t reach it. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not.”

 

Raphael had liked to admit, neither do I. But he was too stubborn.

 

Simon burst out, “Do you love me?”

 

“I love you.”

 

Simon started crying. Raphael didn’t know whether to comfort him or reprimand him.

 

He stared down at the cut on Simon’s arm and his dishevelled appearance.

 

Raphael asked with sudden urgency as a deep realization set it, “What did you do?”

 

Simon appeared flustered, stuck inside his own head and overwhelmed with himself. He looked pale and sickly. Raphael recognized this twisted, despairing emotion. Recklessness.

 

“What did you do?”

 

The only response he got, was “I’ll get you out, I promise. I promise.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, dudes, i don't know. 
> 
> Mistakes, anyone? Alert the media.
> 
> How did ye like it?

**Author's Note:**

> Is this fandom dead? As dead as a doornail.
> 
> Comments welcome! And holler if there are any glaring grammar mistakes -yeesh they're ugly.


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